


You are in love with a boy

by Plumasicera



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Hanamaki is a Good Friend, Hinted IwaOi, I dont think so at least?, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Unrequited Love, not heavy angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29217642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plumasicera/pseuds/Plumasicera
Summary: He takes a sip throwing once again his head back and you watch the way his Adam’s apple moves, bare neck glowing golden under the yellow lights of the room like a canvas of fertile, endless, also golden lands on a placid summer day in which you’ll want to lie down.Your fingers burn.Or: Iwaizumi is leaving and Matsukawa, in his collected, hieratical manner, is all over the place.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Matsukawa Issei
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21
Collections: IwaMatsu Week 2021





	You are in love with a boy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for #iwamatsuweek2021
> 
> (I tried)
> 
> Thanks to mellymochi for betareading this!

The first time you kiss Hanamaki is also the last one.

In a way it’s kind of anticlimactic. Not that you were expecting fireworks or a sudden lust to take over your body, but you guess you’ve just tried to go for some stupid, big dramatic fuck-up and still managed to fail at fulfilling the minimum requirement for it to be described as such.

Well, to begin with, it was something completely out of character for you to do.

“Okay,” Hanamaki says flatly against your lips. “If I wanted to make a point I’d have gone for a little handjob, at least, but I guess a kiss is fine too. Good one, by the way. 11/10 would recommend.”

You snort a little, breaking the tension, and you pull back.

Both of you belong to the kind of people that just go with the flow, the kind of people that idly say “just take it easy, man” and actually mean it, but still you are relieved when you confirm that nothing seems to have changed after the 3.7 seconds you have kissed. The ryokan room is still the same (cheap, cozy, with the distant scent of lemongrass) and the air between you hasn’t shifted and turned into something awkward either (it’s still easy, languid, relaxed). Hanamaki also looks exactly as he did one minute ago (utterly unbothered, pink hair still wet from the onsen and a thin brow arched in low-key interest, clearly not interested enough to go through the effort of arching both).

And he’s right, obviously. Some mindless, mild vanilla sex would have made a much better (yet still foolish) attempt at pretending to move on or whatever it is that you were trying to achieve. You don’t even know what compelled you to do it, except for the fact that lately you’ve been silently turning into a mess in your own composed and quiet way.

Tonight you just seem to have reached your peak.

Hanamaki keeps looking at you, totally unimpressed, and without really asking, he asks:

“Iwaizumi?”

If he’s said that name it’s evident he already knows the answer, so you don’t say a word.

 _Iwaizumi_. Yeah. There’s no point in wondering about it. You like simple things and you lead a simple life. Thinking about it won’t change anything and you easily accepted it almost two years ago.

You are in love with a boy that will never love you back.

It’s as simple as that.

“Well. Shit,” Hanamaki says, sympathetic.

The two of you can suddenly hear the man in question right outside your room, talking in a low voice and laughing honestly, the kind of laughter that you’ve listened to a thousand times, the kind of laughter that rumbles in his chest, coming right from his stomach, and rises up until it explodes in an infectious laugh.

You considered Las Vegas, once. And India or even China for your graduation trip. In the end it’s just Naruko Hot Springs but these things are not about the destination but the company, and you are fine with it.

(It’s as simple as that.)

Iwaizumi chuckles again, deep and amused, at something Oikawa must have said, and you— you could never hate Oikawa for this. Nor even resent him. Hell, you love him, you love _all_ of them deeply and quietly, but sometimes you just wish it was a little easier. Just that. Simple things, simple life. You help your parents at home, you spend time with your little brother, you like your burgers with extra cheese and meat almost raw. You are chill and seek no trouble, you are content with staying out of the spotlight and you enjoy playing volleyball with your friends. You’ve just officially graduated (not a bad student, nor a good one) and in a few days you’ll start looking for a job here in Miyagi and watch the rest of said friends depart. 

It’s fine, you say. Some people stay and some people leave. You just wish moments like this calm evening could last a little longer.

You just wish you could have Iwaizumi a little longer, but that’s asking for too much.

(You are in love with a boy that is going to move to the other side of the world in 24 hours, and you keep telling yourself that it’s fine.)

You can make out some words now, something like “...tell them yourself, dumbass,” in a rough but unmistakable warm voice, and then, softer, “...oh. Okay. No, it’s fine. I’ll tell them. Yeah. Yeah...” and then, after a quiet pause, “...me too.”

Just in time before Iwaizumi slides the door open Hanamaki leans back haphazardly over the tatami mats putting some distance between you, nose scrunching up when his elbow crushes a box of strawberry flavoured pocky with some of them still inside. Iwaizumi pokes his head in, greeting you, unaware of the uncharacteristic silence filling the room, and then he scratches the back of his neck. 

“Uh, sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I wanted the three of us to talk with him but the idiot didn’t tell me he had practice in, like, 10 minutes. I wouldn’t have monopolized him if I had known.”

Hanamaki waves a hand in the air. “No big deal,” he says. “We can brag about Japan’s excellent hot springs any other time.”

“It’s curative properties⎼” you say, face serious.

“The superior food and hospitality⎼” Hanamaki continues, solemn as well.

“This top-quality jinbei,” you add, pinching the fabric. Iwaizumi snorts, rolling his eyes and cutting you two before you get to list each and every wonderful and silly thing you manage to come up with.

“I hope you’ll miss me as much as you miss him,” he says wryly, taking his slippers off. _More_ , you think watching him, heart throbbing calmly. _I’ll miss you even more_ , and, damn, you really are handling it pretty bad, huh?

He comes in sliding the door close and then he sits down next to you. You can smell him— sharp, clean soap and the wild and sweet fragrance of summer nights.

(You are in love with a boy and, even if you tell yourself otherwise, it’s slowly taking you apart.)

“Fancy some iced tea? ‘Gonna fetch one,” Hanamaki says lazily. He’s not looking at you, but still you know he’s doing it for your sake. To give you an out, or offer you a chance. When Iwaizumi and you decline, he just shrugs and goes anyway.

Iwaizumi stretches with a satisfied grunt and then he leans back, firm palms and strong arms supporting his weight, and you watch his profile trying to decipher him. You are good at this— at watching people, it is, without people noticing you doing it, and even though you are pretty observant yourself, right now you wonder what it must feel like being like Oikawa and being able to read everyone down to their darkest, most secret thoughts. Then you wonder what it must feel like being like Oikawa and actually not needing it at all, because you’ve seen them having full conversations with just exchanging a look and you are certain that Iwaizumi must be the only person Oikawa’s never had the need to read.

(You are in love with a boy whose heart, you suspect, is far, far away from here.)

“I’m going to miss you,” he sighs, head thrown back. And for one second you wish ‘you’ actually meant _you_.

“...Yeah,” you mumble after a small pause, and bring the beer to your lips.

It’s a little bitter, but you like the taste. It reminds you of that late afternoon with your father a couple of weeks ago, him passing you his can over the table with a wink despite you not being legally old enough to drink, trying to get a rise out of your mother even though she’s the most laid-back person you’ve ever met. You used to wonder about it when you were young, wonder why he always did that but you think you get it now. That’s just the way he loves her. She never indulges him, though, you muse remembering how she’d opened the fridge and taken a new, unopened can before sitting down and handing it to you. “Here,” she’d said, a secret smile on the corner of her lips. “Someone has to do it right.”

You used to wonder about that, too, but not anymore. That’s just the way she loves him, you know.

“Yeah,” you repeat a little louder after you clear your throat and put the can down. “Yeah. Me too.”

(You are in love with a boy and no one will ever know how you love him.)

(And it’s fine.)

So— This is farewell, you know.

This is the moment for extraordinary, dramatic gestures, though you already had a taste of that 15 minutes ago and you can say with utmost confidence that Hanamaki would totally advise you not to try that again, even if he’s gracefully given you this alone time. To be honest you’d advise exactly the same, if you were him, but, well. Sometimes things are more complicated than that, you guess.

So this is farewell, and you know it, but you also know you are not good at those. You found out when you had to say goodbye a month ago and, really, one month isn’t long enough for you to learn how to do it properly this time. You don’t know what to say, though you do know what _not_ to say— and isn’t it ironic that everything you know you can’t say is actually everything you would want to?

But, in any case, you think watching your long, strangely elegant hands, it’s not as if you had something to offer. You don’t harbor the kind of feelings that shake the earth or overcome oceans; passion doesn’t burn inside you, grand and unstoppable and pushing you forward; your love isn’t fierce, or overwhelming, or something you shout into the boundless night until your lungs grow hoarse.

(Your love is quiet, and tender, and calm, folded and guarded with utmost care in a little place deep in your heart where you keep it safe and warm.)

(You are in love with a boy that you know would treat your love with exactly the same loving care as you, even if he doesn’t love you back.)

(Right now you don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad one.)

You sigh and reach out to the can, but instead of aluminum your fingers wrap around Iwaizumi’s faster ones. He looks at you, a lopsided grin stretching over his lips, and then he picks up the can and brings it to that same smiling mouth.

Suddenly your heart burns.

(You are in love with a boy and you’ve never allowed yourself to think about how it must be, kissing him.)

(Maybe you do, now.)

He takes a sip throwing once again his head back, and you watch the way his Adam’s apple moves, bare neck glowing golden under the yellow lights of the room like a canvas of fertile, endless, also golden lands on a placid summer day in which you’ll want to lie down.

Your fingers burn.

“Ugh,” he says, putting it down. “I’ll never get used to it.”

“It’s non-alcoholic,” you say, vaguely amused. “Isn’t the USA the land of frat parties and cheap booze and all that?”

“What,” he asks, giving you an equally amused look, “You saying I’m going to turn into a frat guy?”

“Just saying,” you shrug picking up the can when he passes it to you and finishing it in one go.

The metal is hotter than before, scorching right where his mouth has been.

Your lips burn. 

“You’ll get used to it,” you say, and to you it sounds as if your voice came from far, far away.

“Mhm,” he hums, lost in thought, though it’s not a melancholic sound. Eager, if you had to guesstimate. It suits the calm evening and echoes beautifully in the distant corners of the room, in the distant corners of yourself. “A lot of things will be different, I guess. Even the smallest ones. I’ll be Hajime, now,” he adds with a snort.

You think about it, swallowing down.

Your throat burns, too.

(You are in love with a boy and you’ve never allowed yourself to call him by his given name.)

(Maybe you should, just once.)

It’s kind of sweet the way you’ve been feeling yourself unravel, the way you’ve been slowly losing your grip on all the feelings you’ve had no problem keeping in check for the last two years— the way you are letting yourself go, now, head light, dull heartache, sweetly desperate in a way you’ve never experienced before, pretty similar to what you’ve always imagined must be actually being drunk.

(Or just being in love.)

And this _is_ farewell, you think, so—

You part your lips leaving the tiniest gap between them, big enough to let it out if you want to (if you dare to) and Iwaizumi looks at you, eyes dark and warm and maybe a little bit curious, and you feel it in your tongue, all at once— your love, his name, a half-assed joke to cover you up (words already forming in your stiff, broken English, a sad excuse for you to roll it out over your tongue: _the sooner, the better,_ Ha-ji-me) and the sudden, insane impulse to lean in and kiss him, soft and brief, kiss him and lay yourself bare in just a gentle touch of lips.

(God. Please. Just this once.)

(You are in love with a boy that you know would turn you down gently, and caring, and guilty, but not enough to let the friendship between you break beyond repair.)

(You know there will never be a better moment for doing it than this one, right before he leaves.)

He keeps looking at you, attentive and waiting, and he’s so, so close, warm breath smelling faintly like beer, not bitter at all.

Your body burns.

“Don’t worry,” you say, finally working your mouth. “We’ll call you up too and tell you all about how great life is back here.”

“Asshole,” he answers with a smile that almost immediately turns into a laugh, loud and good-humoured, and you watch him, you watch him laugh free and happy and so obviously excited to go, and it’s like being struck by lightning— a gentle lightning that softly ruptures you and brings you back to your senses and makes you get a grip on yourself.

(Because your love might be quiet, and tender, and calm, but even so you would never throw it at him and put that weight over his shoulders.)

(You are better than that.)

This is farewell, you think again.

And this time it hits somehow differently —a little more real, a lot more sober— with you gathering all your feelings and coaxing them back into your heart.

(You almost forgot it.)

“Your mouth says ‘dipshit’,” you say, “but all I hear is how much you’re gonna miss us.”

His laugh calms down, leaving him with just an easy smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “Fuck, I really will.” He makes a pause, then, as if thinking about it. “God I can’t believe the day has come in which I’ll actually miss your sorry asses. Where did I go wrong?”

“Excuse you,” Hanamaki’s voice says. The two of you turn and see him leaning indolently against the polished frame of the door. “It seems to me that someone needs to have a look at this gorgeous ass and re-evaluate his choice of words.”

Iwaizumi huffs with a smile, throwing him a t-shirt that was lying around and hitting him right square in the face.

“That’s something that I definitely _won’t_ miss.”

Hanamaki has returned with no iced tea in sight but Iwaizumi doesn’t notice. He just smiles again, crooked and mischievously, clearly expecting it when Hanamaki launches himself at him, both of them wrestling in a mess of limbs for a few seconds until Iwaizumi, predictably, headlocks him and mercilessly ruffles his hair.

(You are in love with a boy that will never love you back.)

Hanamaki squirms asking for freedom and for a fair fight, to maybe arm wrestle for the last time, hm, Iwaizumi-san?

“How on earth is arm wrestling a fair fight?” Iwaizumi snorts, without releasing him. “I’m gonna crush you faster than I did just now.”

“Thought you could give me this one as a going away present.”

(It’s as simple as that.)

“Pfft. You can’t take pride in something you don’t earn rightfully,” Iwaizumi says.

“That your new motto for a lame shirt or something?”

Iwaizumi ruffles Hanamaki’s hair again, swearing under his breath and laughing and one more time it’s the kind of laughter that rumbles in his chest, right from his stomach.

(And you are content with this, you say.)

(And it’s not a lie.)

You are going to miss him (you are going to miss all of them) but you are happy and proud to watch them go, to watch them grow, and change, and pursue their dreams, and you’ll never think of doing nothing but support them.

Iwaizumi’s eyes find you, with Hanamaki still trapped under his arm, and he gives you a smile.

You smile back.

The night rolls by and all through it you all laugh, and joke, and talk, and take some of your last photos together and send the silliest ones to Oikawa and a more decent, solemn one to the volleyball team’s group chat. You look good, smiling and composed and ready to take on this new chapter of your lives.

(And it’s fine, you keep telling yourself.)

This is goodbye.

You don’t sleep at all, that night, and when morning comes it finds the three of you tired and sleepy but still fiercely determined to squeeze the most out of every minute you have left. Iwaizumi looks particularly tired, eyes rimmed red and hair tousled and you think he’s never been as handsome as he is right now, smiling in his dark blue jinbei and framed by the morning light coming in through the shoji screens with their smooth wood and fragile rice paper sheets.

(You think about a name you never got to say out loud. About a kiss you never gave.)

(So many things that will never be yours. So many things you will never tell.)

You tidy up the room yawning and sluggishly even though you have an early train to catch. Hanamaki takes care of returning the three paipais you borrowed from the communal lounge, and Iwaizumi collects your packs and brings them outside.

(A crooked smile. A loving touch. Smiling lips that will share laughs with you, and memories, and the same warm bitter beer but nothing more than that.)

Standing in the middle of the room you take a moment for yourself to enjoy the faint morning sun and the silence. See? Simple things, simple life.

Objectively it’s a beautiful morning, an ideal occasion to say goodbye.

You collect the empty wrappers that had piled up during the night and you throw them before joining them at the front desk, where Iwaizumi grins his crooked smile and hands you your pack.

(You are in love with a boy that will never love you back.)

(It’s as simple as that.)

(You’ll never touch the skin of his throat, or call out his name, or taste his smile.)

(It’s fine, you say.)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


(And it is.)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


(But you keep the can.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
